


I Can Read You Like a Magazine

by angelwithblackeyes



Series: Freedom is a length of rope [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering, Crowley and Fashion, Ficlet, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Side Story, Suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:20:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwithblackeyes/pseuds/angelwithblackeyes
Summary: That one time Castiel wore black, and how a dry cleaner's understudy threatened the war effort. A light-hearted sidefic during Teaching Poetry to Fish.





	I Can Read You Like a Magazine

When Crowley and Castiel sneaked back to Crowley’s room – undignified, Crowley grumbled, but secretly he was enjoying the whole thing too much to care – both in their boxer shorts and shoes, with the other clothes bundled up in Castiel’s overcoat like a bag, Crowley insisted on a shower for both of them.

“Together?” Castiel asked, scandalized, and Crowley was bowled over by another fit of laughter.

“Angel, excuse my bluntness, but I just fucked you senseless on the table of my conference room. But showering together is too intimate?” Castiel blushed. This was endearing enough that Crowley tried to stifle his laughter. “You are… such an angel.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Not surprised. Doesn’t matter. Some other time, when we’re not both already spent, I’ll introduce you to the joys of shower sex. For now do what you like.”

Crowley showered, while Castiel waited outside, no doubt pondering the benefits of harps and dancing on the head of a pin. While he dried himself off and got dressed, Castiel took his shower. He came out wrapped in two towels – _two_ towels, one held tight around his waist, the other around his shoulders like a cape. “These are very fluffy,” he noted. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Because the towels are fluffy?”

“No. I’m… I don’t have any clothes.”

“My, how awful. I suppose you’ll have to stay here, then, without any clothes, until the dry cleaner is finished.”

Castiel gave him a somewhat gloomy look.

“Oh, don’t pout, kitten. I’ll get you something to wear.”

“Yes, king,” he replied flatly, and Crowley was given the distinct impression that he was being sassed.

He threw a black silk robe at the angel and stuffed the other clothes into a bag. Usually he would be careful how he handled a suit, but to be honest he rather hoped Castiel’s ill-fitting synthetic disaster would somehow prove irreparably ruined. Castiel put on Crowley’s robe, which was, distractingly, just a little too short on him, showing off a little more thigh than it would on Crowley. Then he sat down on the bed and smoothed it down primly and Crowley had to leave before he either started laughing again or was compelled to reduce the fastidious feathered prig to wanton begging –

 _Merino. Worsted. Cashmere. Linen. Natural silk. Wool-silk blends_. Crowley focused resolutely on suit options as he transported himself to the dry cleaner.

 

Crowley was meticulous. He always used the same dry cleaner, who knew exactly how he liked his suits pressed, who knew better than to rush the job; he’d had the best human dry cleaner he could find possessed, and paid them lavishly to make sure their facilities were always in perfect shape. He had even gotten them an understudy. Ever since that ugly incident with his tailor, he’d made a point of that. He brought Castiel’s clothing, in a bag, and his own, in a separate bag, and he dropped them off. The two demons inside took the bags and nodded in greeting, and he nodded back, and then he went to find Castiel a new suit.

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

“Angel. It doesn’t fit you.”

“Yes it does.”

Crowley stared at the intransigent angel incredulously. “Of the two of us, which one was a bloody _tailor_?”

“You were.”

“And I’m telling you it doesn’t fit.”

“It feels like it fits.”

“At least let me take in the jacket, here and here,” Crowley said, patting the sides to show Castiel how much room there was.

Cas shook his head. “Crowley, it’s fine.”

“No, kitten, it’s not,” Crowley insisted, although he could tell this was a losing battle.

“I need a coat,” the angel muttered, holding his arms out to the sides stiffly.

“What?”

“I need an overcoat.”

“What do you need an overcoat for? Angels get cold?”

“No. It – it feels wrong.”

“What feels wrong?”

Castiel gestured vaguely at his entire torso. Crowley rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Fine. We’ll get you an overcoat. But stop fidgeting with the tie. That’s how it’s supposed to fit.”

“It’s tight. And I don’t like this tie.”

“You don’t have to like it.”

“It’s too short.”

“No, angel, your blue one is just too long.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“You really don’t,” Crowley said, raising his eyebrows. Cas blushed.

“Can’t I at least – you brought this one,” he said, picking up a narrower, longer black tie.

Crowley sighed. “Fine.” He unknotted the tie Cas was wearing and laid it aside.

“It’s better,” Cas said, apparently pleased with himself. Crowley rolled his eyes and tied the new one, which was several inches too long and half the correct width.

When he was done, he pointed at the angel, giving him a look. “You’re _welcome_ , by the way.”

“Thank you.”

 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

 

 “Guess.” Lola slid the beer over to Sean, who was in sales.

“Really, Lo? It could be any one of his lackeys, all of them at once for all I know.”

“You don’t want to guess?”

“Just tell me.”

She leaned in. “The angel.”

“The what?” Sean put down his phone and looked at Lola for the first time since they’d arrived. She grinned.

“The _angel._ The _Winchesters’_ angel.”

“You’re lying.”

“King comes in, as usual, not a word to anyone. We open up the bag? It’s that trenchcoat. The angel’s trenchcoat. With _stains._ ”

“What kind of – ” She gave him a meaningful look, and his eyes went wide. “You’re _kidding_.”

“Cross my heart.”

 

A few tables away, the bartender was handed an astonishing tip by the young, exceedingly polite, slightly odd woman he had been serving all night – Adina, her name was – and gave her a slightly dazed smile as she got her things and walked out of the bar.


End file.
